Pootie Tang Speaks A Language All His Own

The super-smooth crime fighter is the creation of comic Louis C. K. and actor Lance Crouther, who together are one of the funniest men in America.

ON THE SCREEN, Pootie Tang is about to get it on with a special lady friend. The camera snap-zooms into his face and he delivers his smoldering promise: "Baby, I'm gonna sine your pitty on the runny kine." Pootie Tang is a sleek, crime-fighting superhero with a Jheri-curl ponytail, a magical ass-whipping belt, and a powder-blue vintage Corvette. Pootie Tang, so cool he makes Shaft look like Gary Coleman. Pootie Tang, role model for the kids, sex symbol to the ladies, crime-fighting superstud to everybody else. Pootie Tang, unencumbered by an intelligible language.

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Pootie Tang is the title of the movie, and Louis C. K. is both Pootie's creator and director. C. K. turns off the Avid in the editing room and sits for a moment, contemplating the problems with the rough cut. And the producers, Jesus, don't get him started. But that battle will have to wait because he's got to get to the club.

They're running an hour late at the Luna Lounge, a downtown bar in New York where comics go on Monday nights to stretch out and try new material. Jon Stewart is onstage when C. K. arrives. Stewart is relaxed but sweating profusely in the hotbox of a room. The AC is broken and the smoke hangs in the air. He's trying out some raunchy bits, mostly making himself laugh. "I stopped being funny five minutes ago, thank you very much," he says, waves to decent applause, and leaves the stage. Janeane Garofalo does her thing, then Colin Quinn. An unknown comic in full-tilt pimp attire gets up and does a long slap-my-bitch routine. He dies, and the next comic feeds on his corpse, picks at it, gets more laughs making fun of the guy than the guy got with his own stuff.

At the bar just outside the packed comedy room, Stewart smokes a cigarette and looks like a man who just went running in the rain. He makes his way over to C. K. and greets him reverentially, as if he's a guest in C. K.'s house. Other comics and friends approach the same way. C. K. is low-key, warm, humble. He's not a celebrity, but he is a master, and the comics here know it. He's also a little distracted. He tries not to do anything but new material here, so he needs to frisk his brain for funny things to say onstage. He jots a note, looks around the bar for an idea.

Over in the corner, he sees Bill Clinton breast-feeding an armful of puppies. At the end of the bar is the Jew Wrestler, and over by the door, a couple of guys are having a heated staring contest. C. K. spots the crazy-eyed dude who tried to hijack the Staten Island Ferry to Bolivia. He watches a nervous, hunched fellow walk past. The guy owns a camera store and he likes to go home after work, play gypsy music on an old Victrola, and sit his naked ass down in a big metal bowl of ice cream. C. K. has seen these freaks before; armies of them are camped out in his head.

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The first time C. K. was onstage was at a Boston comedy club. He was seventeen and ran out of material in two minutes. Mortified, he waited two years and came back with a solid five-minute set. In his early twenties he moved to New York, started making bizarre short films and doing stand-up. He won festival awards for his films. He was hired as a writer for Conan O'Brien, which led to Letterman and The Chris Rock Show, where he won an Emmy. Pootie Tang is his shot at the movies. The Luna Lounge emcee is calling. C. K. downs his seltzer and makes his way to the stage.

By now, the crowd is hot, restless, standing shoulder to shoulder. C. K. steps onto the stage, says hello, a modest wave, asks how everyone is doing. He feels lighter up there, sharper. Everything slows down. By the end of his first bit, a racist-farm-animal thing, the room is howling with laughter. The chemical reaction is taking place, the euphoria that happens when the laughs are deep and true.

This means nothing, C. K. thinks to himself as he stands stock-still, clutching the mike. These people are his peers, his friends. They know he's funny. They love the weird stuff. They're too busy laughing to know he's scared of what will become of his movie. C. K. makes Hollywood nervous. They're asking for changes. They've never seen anything like Pootie Tang before. This is, after all, a guy who speaks his own private language. And there are no subtitles, just C. K.'s unwavering faith that when Pootie speaks, the people will understand. Sa da tai, my damies.

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